


A Holiday From Being A Nun

by JD11



Series: Patrick & Shelagh [2]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23746813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JD11/pseuds/JD11
Summary: As Sister Bernadette continues to contemplate what makes her long for something else in life, she and Dr. Turner travel together to a medical conference several hours north. After Sister Bernadette confesses to Dr. Turner that all she wants is a day away from Sister Bernadette's judgement to better reflect on how she feels, Dr. Turner tries to find a way to help.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Series: Patrick & Shelagh [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710616
Comments: 21
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With all this time on my hands, I re-discovered a bunch of notes for a continuation of my last story 'Shelagh Mannion: A Life in Vignettes'. 
> 
> I highly recommend reading that story first to get non-cannon background on Shelagh's life.

It had been weeks now – perhaps months, time had been flying by so fast – since Dr Turner had brought to Sister Julienne’s attention a medical conference a five hours’ drive north that he planned to attend and that he expected the midwives might find enlightening. Sister Julienne had elected Sister Bernadette to attend, knowing that the young nurse would be the most studious and be best able to teach the rest of staff everything that she learned. When Dr. Turner had confirmed that Sister Bernadette would accompany him for the long morning drive, he had at first been more pleased by the choice than he perhaps should have been. 

But just two days before their trip, Sister Bernadette had seemed… odd. She’d been reserved, but not in her quiet, nun-ish way – an upset way. She had asked for her own cigarette – so unlike her – and smoked the entire thing without another word passing between them. 

Dr Turner had supposed that she’d had an unusually difficult case or exceptionally long day, and he had hoped she would shake it off the next day. But in the few times he had bumped into her since, she still seemed withdrawn and distracted. 

The day before the conference, he pulled up to Nonnatus House around 10 in the morning. She was waiting for him on the steps; however, she didn’t notice him at first, as if her mind had been somewhere else. She greeted him quietly and, after she’d taken her seat in his car, had already started staring out into the road. He left her alone for the first hour, hoping that eventually the silence would get the better of her and she might reveal her mind to him. 

But he should have realized that silence would never overcome a nun and rapidly both his concern and his curiosity were getting the better of him. 

“Timothy says hello.” 

His words pulled her attention away from the passing scenery. She even flashed him a small smile. “He’s very sweet.” 

After a pause, he said, “Even he mentioned that you seem quiet recently.” 

He realized when she looked away from him that he may have miscalculated in speaking. He frowned and settled back into the drive, ready for another four hours of sullen quiet, when suddenly she sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her leaning against the car door, eyes scanning the horizon. 

In the quiet of the car, Sister Bernadette’s soft voice said, nearly a whisper, “If I could understand precisely what I feel, I would talk to you.” She was quiet again; he glanced at her, trying to gauge whether that was all she would say for the moment. He wanted to say something, to urge her to try to explain herself, to open up to him, but he had learned recently that she revealed her thoughts slowly and so he bit down his urge to speak and waited. 

“I try to meditate on these thoughts – emotions really,” she said unexpectedly. He glanced at her; she was staring down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “But every time I do, every time I try, I feel as if Sister Bernadette is standing over my shoulder, judging my every thought, so that I can’t even get to the bottom of the cause.” 

He felt her looking at him and took his eyes off the road just long enough to meet hers. He wanted to say something, but what could he say in response to that admission. 

She wet her bottom lip, a slow movement. He nearly forgot to look back at the road. He wished they weren’t in a car for this conversation so he could study her face, her inflections, while she spoke. He wished more that she would look at him and not the window when she said, “I just wish I could take a day off. A holiday from being a nun. Just for a day – a part of a day – so I could think without feeling guilty for my own thoughts.”

They settle back into silence. Sister Bernadette alternates between watching her fingers and watching the grass out the window. 

But her words – the word: guilty – hangs a heavy weight inside the car. 

They listen to the radio for a little while. Dr Turner tells her a few stories about Timothy. One – about a new interest in insects – makes her smile. 

/-/-

They arrived in town in the late afternoon. After they parked and checked into their rooms, they both agreed they could use a nice walk to stretch their legs. 

They walked a few short blocks, speaking only in directions, as they searched for the main road. The day was winding to an end and they could feel it in the low hum of activity peaking with end-of-the-day errands and men getting out of work. 

The warm scent of chips wafted up a side street. Dr Turner looked down at the nun. “Fancy some fish and chips for dinner? My treat.” 

He was also thoughtful, so generous, Sister Bernadette thought. She nodded and they crossed the road towards the smell. 

The Sister hung back a little as Dr Turner walked up and placed their orders. 

The spring had finally arrived and the afternoon had a lovely, kind warmth to it. She tipped her face up towards the sun and felt it kiss her skin. When she dropped her chin, her eyes caught on the display in the shop window before her. A mannequin in a simple blouse, with gentle blue and green flower prints. A blue skirt – almost the color of the RAF, but more feminine. 

“One fish supper.” Dr Turner’s voice startled her. She looked up at him, smiled, then took the offered food. 

He seemed to realize that he had startled her because his brows dropped and the corners of his lips pulled down. Then he looked over his shoulder at the window display. His eyes scanned over the mannequin, then returned to Sister Bernadette’s. 

“Admiring the display?” 

He knew at once that he’d said both the right and wrong thing. The tips of her cheeks blushed a delicate pink, and he knew he was right. But she also turned and began walking, her dinner untouched, and he knew he’d embarrassed her. 

But almost immediately she redirected and brought them to a bench, where they could sit and eat. 

Once they started eating, she began chatting, almost as if back to her normal self, telling him the latest drama about Sister Monica Joan and the latest antics of the young nurses. 

But as he chewed on a lava hot chip, he couldn’t help dwell on her words in the car: I just wish I could take a day off. A holiday from being a nun.

/-/-


	2. Chapter 2

The next day started early with lectures, then small panel discussions, eventually a break for luncheon, and then back to more lectures. In an effort to cover more territory, they had split up for the afternoon and attended different lectures that interested them. 

But his final lecture ended rather early. He stepped out into the warm air and lit a cigarette. For a moment, he just stood there, drawing breath, breathing out. On a whim, he began to walk, retracing his steps from the evening prior. 

As his feet wandered, his mind dwelled. He was worried about his friend – he thought he could safely call Sister Bernadette his friend. She was so distracted and upset recently, so unlike her usual robust and joyful self. 

He was particularly struck by the image she had painted of two selves: Sister Bernadette and… the woman before, he supposed. 

And, what did it mean, that the woman within her was trying to think, to feel, to understand herself and the Sister stood in judgement? 

What was she feeling? He wondered. 

The smell of fish and warm chips brought the Doctor to a halt. 

The same blouse and shirt dressed the mannequin in the shop window. He wondered now about her reaction to his jest. Admiring the display? He’d said. Her reaction told him that she had been admiring it – another sin for Sister Bernadette to look down and judge? 

I just wish I could take a day off. 

How can a nun take a day off from being a nun? 

Just for a day – a part of a day – so I could think without feeling guilty for my own thoughts.

He walked into the shop before he could think better of his actions. 

/-/-

After her lecture finished, Sister Bernadette found Dr Turner by his car. He sat on the hood, a cigarette between his lips and a newspaper in hand. 

Their plan was to drive a portion of the way home and stop whenever they were ready to rest. Dr Turner claimed to know a few towns along the way they could safely stop. 

When he noticed her, he dropped the newspaper to his lap and smiled. He didn’t smile much anymore, but when he did, Sister Bernadette found such great strength in the genuine, complete joy he expressed. 

“Well,” Sister Bernadette began, “I think this was a very productive day, Doctor. Thank you for inviting me.” 

“Of course.” He pushed off the hood and came around to the door. “Ready for the long drive back?” 

“Well, ready for a short drive somewhere.” 

He smiled. Then his eyes flashed briefly over the brown-paper package in the backseat. His cheeks flushed a little. Had he made a huge mistake? 

Make the offer, he told himself. Make it now. 

“About that,” he began awkwardly. He looked away, surveying their surroundings. No one was particularly nearby. He rested his arm onto the top of the car, his fingers splaying over the door window. Then he leaned into the sister a little, to make sure his words didn’t get swept up in the gentle breeze. “I can’t give you an entire day, but I can give you an evening.” 

Her glasses magnified her stormy eyes. She seemed to understand him. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. 

Quickly, before she could stop him and before he could stop himself, he moved around her, reached in through the back window, and pulled out the brown-paper package and a shoe box. 

“I bought this on a whim. Possibly a foolish whim, but…” He held it out to her, offering the gift.

When she didn’t take it, he continued. “It’s that dress you were looking at. I thought…” He sighed, angry at his words. Then he looked down at the parcel, then back up at her. “Let me give you that evening off, where no one knows us and it’ll be completely our secret.” 

She looked down at the package but still wouldn’t reach out to take it. He can see her thinking. A little pink blush tickled around her nose. He could practically see Sister Bernadette hoovering over the wonderful little woman in front of him. 

Seconds tick by and she still hadn’t spoken, still hadn’t taken the parcel. Dr Turner began to worry that he’d gone completely off the mark. He’d offended her. He was going to hell. 

And yet, he rationalized, if that were true, she’d have already rejected him. 

He decided to make one last push. “I don’t think there’s any shame in needing some space in order to make a decision. Or to understand why you need to make a decision.” 

His voice draws her eyes. He hopes that she sees his concern and his honesty. He hopes she sees that he wants to do this to help her. 

Quietly, she took the package, the shoe box resting carefully on top, and pulled it tightly against her chest. She excused herself with barely a word and headed back into the building. 

/-/-

Most of the attendees were still milling around the front entrance, smoking and chatting. Many were still lining the foyer. Predictably, most were men, but there were a few females. 

Being a nun, though, Sister Bernadette could maneuver through the foyer into the back hallway where the lady’s was tucked away without anyone taking any notice of her. 

She locked the door and, carefully, she set the packet in the sink. 

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and looked up at herself – at Sister Bernadette. 

The habit covered every aspect of her body except for her eyes staring back through her glasses. 

She used to have pierced ears. She used to take the time to brush and curl her hair. She had never been vain in her clothing choices, but she used to choose carefully. But the habit had washed away so many aspects of her personality. 

The longer she stared at her grey-blue eyes, the more it felt like her reflection wasn’t her, but some nun standing in front of her, judging this decision – this crack in faith, this slip into vanity. 

She turned away. She removed her wimple, and then the rest of her clothes, gently folding each item and setting the wool into a pile on the toilet cover. 

It was only once she had striped to her slip, her bare feet cold on the tile floor, that she opened the package. 

It was exactly the dress she was looking at. Sister Bernadette fingered the shoulder of the blouse, enjoying the feel of the soft material between her fingers. It was very pretty and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the entire affair – by the vanity of wanting to wear this new dress, the excitement about spending an evening off, the frivolity and presumption of it, the willingness to abandon her prayers and duties, the selfishness.

The guilt overwhelmed her. It seized at her lungs. She clutched both sides of the sink and looked up into the mirror. She was still wearing her cap and saw Sister Bernadette staring back at her. 

She looked back down at the blouse. She was so sick of Sister Bernadette’s guilt. What about Shelagh? What about Shelagh’s sense of loss, of loneliness, of confusion?

She forced herself to take a deep breath. She held the air in her lungs and asked herself one question: did she want to put on the outfit and take a night off? 

She looked at herself in the mirror as she released the breath. Slowly, she removed her cap and set it on top of the pile. Then she let her hair loose and brushed it out with her fingers. 

It was so different looking at herself now. Reflected in the mirror wasn’t the same face of the 19-year-old girl who had left home, quiet and mourning. At some point, while hidden beneath her habit, she had matured into a young woman. 

She dressed quickly, realizing that she had already spent a long time merely undressing. 

Almost dressed, she rolled a pair of silk stockings up her leg, loving the feeling of them cling to her skin. 

Then she opened the shoe box to reveal a pair of comfortable, practical shoes, but what Trixie might call “quite cute”. 

Last, she played her fingers through her hair again, trying to organize it, but the way she had had it twisted and pulled up had made her hair curl around her face and settle on her shoulders. 

She stood back from the mirror, brushed her blouse down, looked at herself. This was a woman she had never met before. 

A little shiver passed up her spine. She didn’t know if it was excitement or terror, but it made her move quickly to wrap her habit in the brown paper and rush out of the room. 

/-/-


	3. Chapter 3

Dr Turner had snuffed out his first cigarette when the first twinge of nerves questioned his decision. He had been quickly working his way through his second when he began to fear he had forced her into accepting his wild plan. And he had been lighting his third when he checked his watch and saw that the Sister had been inside the building for twenty-one minutes. 

He took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked a piece of tobacco leaf off his tongue, and then ran his free hand through his hair. He’d made a huge mistake. 

It was while he had his back to the building, his chin to his chest, one hand rubbing the back of his neck and the other holding a slowly burning cigarette, that he heard: “All set.” 

The words were so quiet, he almost didn’t believe he heard them. But he knew her voice absolutely. 

When he turned around, he was determined to smile and to act normal. He wanted to reassure her. But instead he froze. 

He noticed her hair first – a blonde-ish brown that curled loosely and framed her high cheek bones delicately. Without the wimple, her face seemed to have a completely different shape, all still framed by her lovely glasses. 

Next, he noticed her neck. She was so pale. Not a sickly pale. The kind of pale where the skin was simply unblemished from the sun and disease. 

The outfit was a good fit. Suddenly her body had shape. And gorgeous legs, strong ankles. 

She was his friend and he confided in her, trusted her, enjoyed her presence because he loved her personality, her strength, her intellect. But he realized suddenly, looking at her, that he had never noticed her as a woman before. 

When he snapped his eyes back to her face, he could see that she was blushing. She bit her lip and dropped her eyes. She was doing it out of modesty, he knew, but she couldn’t have realized how coy she seemed, how delightfully tempting. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said it without thinking. She looked up in surprise and he somehow found the ability to correct himself. “This dress,” he said. “Looks very good on you.”

Then, after an awkward pause, “Shall we?” He took the package from her hands, opened her door, and offered a little flash of a self-conscious smile.

Gracefully, she lowered herself onto the seat.

/-/-

The drive took them back into the country. 

It was so quiet – flourishing fields, green grass, dust kicking up off the road behind them. 

With her window rolled down, she leaned against the door. The wind tussled her hair, blowing loose strands all around her face. It used to annoy her the way the ends of her hair would whip into her eyes or, worse, her mouth. 

That was a long time ago. Back when Michael would take them for drives. Just sixteen, Michael would trade odd jobs for petrol rations. They’d take his father’s truck. It would smell of manure and hay, but that didn’t bother them. They’d roll down the windows and drive endlessly around the countryside. And Shelagh’s hair would whip into her eyes and mouth and she’d tuck them behind her ears in irritation. But she enjoyed the warmth and the sound and even the smell of the fresh air too much to roll up her window. 

The drives were so frivolous. Probably reckless. There was a war ranging around those children and petrol was needed for the war effort. But they were so surrounded everyday by family; this was their one reprieve, their short moments of privacy. 

In the car with Dr Turner, Shelagh stuck her hand out the window, feeling the air push her hand up into the sky. The wind whipped hair into the corner of her mouth and she simply let the strands stay, attacking her face. How long had it been since her hair had felt the wind? 

She could tell that Dr Turner kept turning to watch her – the rustle of his collar gave him away – but she didn’t care. She sank even further into the door, so the tip of her nose peaked out the window. She felt the late afternoon sun on her face, even her ears. 

Shelagh closed her eyes. Behind the dark lids, she could just make out the outline of Michael’s face, the corners of his eyes crinkling with laughter. 

/-/-

They only drove for two hours when they decided it was time to stop. 

Not long after, they pulled up to a cozy bed and breakfast, the address of which Dr Turner had written down before they left Poplar. 

Dr Turner pulled their cases from the boot of his car and then they both made their way up the white-painted stairs together. 

The moment Shelagh’s fingers wrapped around the cold metal, a startled thought occurred to her: A Doctor and a Nun could travel together without raising any questions, but a Doctor and a young, single woman? Obviously, they could still request separate rooms, but would that truly erase any doubts or silence any prying? 

And no sooner did the door open, then a bell chimed and the housekeeper appeared before them. She was older, matronly, a wee bit stout, but otherwise looked at them with bright eyes and a kind smile. “Looking for a room, dear?” 

“Yes,” Shelagh replied and hastened up to the desk, where the woman stood.

The woman nodded, flipped opened her ledger, then looked back up at the two of them. “Mr and Mrs … ?” 

“Turner.” Shelagh surprised herself by speaking – she really did – because she had had every intension of asking for two separate rooms and explaining their professional relationship and not letting the potential awkwardness to ruin the free night Dr Turner had gifted her. But then the reply, the name, came so effortlessly that she completely shocked herself. 

“Just for the night,” Shelagh added, needing to say something of her own accord to calm her nervous. She could feel Dr Turner standing directly behind her. He had said nothing; the only noise that had come from him was the thud of their cases meeting the floor. 

The woman smiled and nodded and slid the book towards them. The Doctor suddenly came around her and took the offered pen. She watched him write, quite illegibly, ‘Dr. & Mrs. Patrick Turner’. 

Dr Turner paid for the night and the housekeeper retrieved their key and beckoned them to follow her up the stairs. Shelagh followed directly; Dr Turner picked up their cases and joined them a few steps behind. 

Shelagh could feel his questioning eyes staring into her back, but she knew she had no good answer for him. The closer they grew to their shared room, the more nervous she became, the more self-conscious. She worried the gold ring on her finger as she watched the housekeeper unlock their door. 

It was Patrick who thanked the woman and (seemingly) took note of breakfast and checkout. Shelagh, on the other hand, had walked straight into the room and stopped in the dead center of it. 

As soon as the woman had left, Patrick shut the door behind her, locked it, and then turned to Shelagh. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said instantly. Those weren’t the first words she expected to hear – she expected to be the one apologizing. “It didn’t even occur to me,” he continued, “that this… would complicate the rooms.” 

He looked around the room quickly, then gestured to the far corner of the room. “There’s a chaise lounge. I can sleep there for the night. No harm.” 

Shelagh followed his gesture with her eyes. The chaise lounge looked comfortable enough but, “It’s so tiny.” She looked back at the Doctor and frowned. “Certainly, you can’t fit comfortably. I’ll sleep there.” 

She could tell that he wanted to continue the argument, but he let her win. Silence descended over them. Once again, Shelagh worried the gold ring on her right hand, spinning it around to the right, then the left, letting her thoughts spiral away from her in no particular order. 

Dr Turner had hit on something – neither of them had really thought this through. What was the point of the charade when it would just cause more anxiety, more trouble trying to maintain the rouse than just keeping the status quo? What a silly fantasy that had gotten them into trouble now… 

Her thoughts froze when Dr Turner began to walk towards her. 

Her hands were still together, resting over her stomach, but they stopped moving when Dr Turner didn’t. He walked up right in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his person. He smiled down at her and took her hands in his. She watched his soft, nimble hands gently pry her hands apart. Then he splayed her fingers and carefully, taking the ring between his thumb and forefinger, slid it off her right hand. Then he took her left hand in his and said:

“If we’re going to have a proper holiday and not make anyone suspicious, then we ought to do it right.”

His words were playful and his tone light and airy, but she saw the seriousness in his face and knew that his hand was hoovering before hers, asking permission before sliding a wedding band onto her left hand. 

She smiled at him, but it wasn’t a full smile, just one meant to reassure him. He took that as permission and they both looked down to watch as he slipped the ring over her knuckle. 

Once the ring was on, they each seemed to expect the other to do something or say something, but neither had any idea what to do next. Instead, they both just looked down at Shelagh’s dainty pale hand being cupped ever so gently in his. She liked the warmth of his hands. She liked the texture of them more – not rough like Michael’s calloused skin, but not soft like a woman’s. 

In the silence, she could hear each one of his breathes and then she realized she could feel them too, each exhale warm against her forehead. 

She noticed a dark, small freckle on the side of his pointer finger just before he released her hands and stepped away. 

The Doctor took a step back, then turned in a small half-circle to move further away. As he moved, he fiddled with the wedding band he still wore. Shelagh knew they had already taken this evening off too far and now his little tick gave him away – he had no idea how to reign everything back in. 

Suddenly he stopped moving and looked back at her. “Shall we go for a walk? Perhaps find somewhere for dinner?” 

/-/-


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as they’re outside, Patrick pulled out his cigarette case, removed one, and placed it between his lips. Without thinking, he removed another. After he’d lit them both, he handed the second to the petite blonde beside him. 

Their walk was as aimless as their conversation. They began with Shelagh’s inquiries about Timothy, but the conversation settled on the clinic and work. Eventually, random bits of life took over the flow. Most of the time, the topic was about nothing of consequence, even though both desperately wished to ask a real question, a personal question. 

Sometime during their conversation, they found dinner and enjoyed their way through each course, through dessert, even through a bottle of wine. 

Afterwards, as they struggled to find a more direct route to the inn, they heard music filter into the streets. 

Patrick smiled when he noticed Shelagh humming along, trying to catch the melody. 

“I miss singing,” she admitted after the song petered out. “And dancing. Michael used to take me all the time. I loved it.” 

Patrick smiled at the wistfulness of her voice. “So, where’s Michael now?” 

Shelagh steps slowed until she brought them both to a halt. He saw her frown and watched as she looked up into the evening sky. 

“He died. Somewhere in Germany, I was told.” 

Patrick looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt like an idiot for asking. After so many years of peace, it had become almost easy to forget the devastation. 

Her voice was calm, soft, almost painless, but her face told an entirely different story: the grief, the pain, the loss. Patrick watched her watch the sky and the emotions shifting across her features nearly broke him. 

Suddenly, to shake her from her reverie, he pulled her towards the source of the music. 

“Doctor, what are you doing?” 

He just smiled at her and said, “Trust me?” 

And he knew that she did. Moments later, they found themselves in a dance hall. They were hardly dressed for it, but they didn’t care. Patrick bought them both a drink and they hung back in the corner briefly, getting a feel for the place, before jumping in to join the dancing. 

He could see it in her eyes, in the way she smiled, in the way she lost herself in the music and began to sing when she knew the words. He heard it most in her laugh. Certainly, he had heard Sister Bernadette laugh before, but he realized now that her mirth had always been restrained, conservative or cut short. Here, in this unknown dance hall, with her hair in loose curls around her face, she laughed full from the belly until her eyes teared up. 

When a slow song came on, Patrick didn’t hesitate to pull her to him. She was stiff against him for just a moment, until the singer began to sing and the words calmed her. She tucked her chin into his jacket and rested her ear right against chest; he feared she could hear his heart pounding despite the loud music. Patrick took a chance. He splayed his hand over her lower back and dropped his chin against the top of her head. 

Then he closed his eyes. For just a moment, he imagined that he was out on a holiday with his young wife, their children tucked away at home with their grandmother. He took note of her soft figure against him and imagined cuddling, warm and safe in bed, with this lovely creature. He felt some feeling blossoming in the pit of his stomach – some combination of contentment and lust – and he held onto that feeling until the music stopped and his dancing partner slowly pulled away. 

/-/-

The cool evening air doused the warmth burning in her cheeks. 

Shelagh was grateful for it. Inside the dance hall, the air had grown humid and stale and her chest had started to feel tight. 

Outside, she looked up at the starry night and smiled. 

“Has this holiday been helpful?”

They were the first words either had spoken in what felt like hours. 

They walked side-by-side, but there was space between them – she couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off his hands as she could inside the dance hall. 

She considered his question for a moment. She’d had almost forgotten; his words seemed to shatter the fragile veil of make believe. 

“Yes,” she said slow, her accent naturally elongating the word as she continued to think about her answer. Then she looked up at him. “And no.” 

He wasn’t looking at her, but rather down at the pavement as they walked. She hoped he would speak – ask some kind of clarifying question; somehow focus her thoughts for her. But he just waited for her to elaborate, waited and gave her space to speak. 

She looked down at her hands, caressed the familiar metal in an unfamiliar place, and sighed. 

“It has brought very little clarity to the issue itself,” she admitted. “But tonight has reminded me who I used to be, before I was Sister Bernadette. I feel like I’d completely forgotten her – or, rather me.” 

Dr Turner didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at her. In fact, nothing about his manner seemed to change. And yet she knew, instinctively, that her words struck him. 

They were silent for a long while as Dr Turner led them back to the inn. They turned a corner and the inn came into view. The thought of their shared room flooded back and Shelagh felt her stomach twist in anticipation. 

But Dr Turner’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Can I ask…” His words trailed off breathlessly, like he knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t stop himself. 

Shelagh slowed her gait and Dr Turner brought them to a halt until a streetlamp. He turned so they faced each other. He looked down at her hands for a moment, then found her eyes. “Can I ask what you really needed the holiday for?” 

It struck her that he wasn’t really asking what she was feeling. He was asking what had led to this. What had changed and disturbed her steady confidence. 

She wet her lips and found it difficult to look away from the black button on the top of his waistcoat. 

“Lately,” she said, so softly that Dr Turner hunched down a little to hear her better. “I’ve been wondering if I joined the order for the right reasons.” 

It was a hard admission, but once she spoke the words – once the words had become real – she knew them to be true. 

But that was just the surface of her thoughts. 

“Do you remember a few months ago, when Timothy cut his arm at school?” 

Dr Turner nodded. Perhaps afraid to speak and scare her sudden ability to speak. 

“He reminds me so much of Michael. Seeing Timothy that day… well it brought on so many thoughts of what could have been. It reminded me of what I had wanted for myself, so long ago. A life that ended – that I thought had ended with Michael.” 

She felt more than she heard Dr Turner’s breathing change – slow and deep and steady, each exhale disturbing the strands of hair against her forehead. 

Then he spoke. “You mentioned Michael earlier. Who was he to you?” 

“My whole world.” She really tried to picture his face, but all she could produce was Timothy’s freckled features, his messy brown hair, his kind smile. His father’s smile. Shelagh looked up to see Dr Turner gazing steadily down at her. 

“He was my fiancé. We had so many dreams together – five kids and a farm and a wonderful life. But the war took it away – it took everything from me.”

She had to look away from him. She had to swallow, to regain her composure. But she also had to finish speaking. 

“The religious life brought so much peace back to my life and I don’t know how I would have survived without my faith. But recently… recently I’ve felt a sense of loss that is unlike anything I’ve felt before. It’s not grief, just an emptiness that I can’t fill with prayer or work.” 

She thought she would almost break down and cry, but when peered back up at him, she felt her feet steady under her. 

“Tonight was like glimpsing what might have been,” she admitted. “It was very lovely.” 

/-/-


	5. Chapter 5

They lingered outside for a while. Patrick went to lean against the lamp post and lit a cigarette as he watched his companion step out of the light and look up at the stars. 

He had never noticed, with her wimple in the way, just how lovely her bone structure actually was. He could see now, how delicately angular her cheekbones were, how her glasses softened her features. A little breeze picked up and Patrick watched it play through her hair, taking a few strands flying forward and catching her lips. He studied the strands as they fluttered, until she brushed her hair back behind her ear. Then, he contented himself with studying her lips. They were pale. Parted slightly in her distraction. The corners curling back in a wistful smile. 

The breeze returned, this time a quick, cold gust. He noticed her shoulders shudder and her lips part to inhale a shaky breath. 

Oh, Patrick, he though. What are you doing to yourself?

Patrick exhaled the last of his cigarette and tossed the butt to the ground. He glanced up over his shoulder at their inn. Somewhere on the second floor was a solitary room waiting for both of them. 

When he looked back at her, she had wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself against the chill. 

“Shall we head in?” he spoke quietly, nervous to disturb the night air. She hummed her agreement, but didn’t look away from the stars. Patrick pushed off the streetlamp and approached her. He wanted to say her name to get her attention, but when his tongue tried to form the words ‘Sister Bernadette’, they didn’t seem right. Instead, he gently placed his hand just above the small of her back. The slightest of pressure, just enough for her to know that he was there. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the blouse. He could feel the shiver run down her spine. 

He’d startled her; she snapped her head to look at him. 

“Shall we go in?” 

There was a shadow of some emotion that cast itself over her face. Patrick wasn’t sure what he had said wrong, but she bowed her head and was quiet a moment. “Yes,” she finally said, “that’s probably best.” 

Inside, the innkeeper greeted them with a drowsy, “Good evening, Dr. Turner, Mrs. Turner. How was your dinner?” 

Mrs. Turner. What a foreign phrase now to Patrick’s ears. Had it really been two years? 

Beside him, she spoke. “We had a lovely time. Thank you for the recommendation.” Patrick thought her accent seemed thicker, fuller in the vowels – perhaps this was a usual sign of her tiredness. 

Back in their room, he stripped off his jacket and vest and carefully folded them onto the back of a chair. Then he took his toothbrush and left for the toilet down the hall, silently giving her the privacy to change. As he stood over the sink, mechanically moving the brush across his teeth, a conversation with Sister Bernadette came back to him. 

Months ago, he had been concerned for Timothy and the boy’s need for a mother. He had been thinking about companionship, about dating, about marriage – for a while, he had been grappling with the notation that he wanted a new companion. He missed Marion. There was a little ache inside of him every time he thought her name, every time he looked at Timothy. The ache had transformed a lot in two years. It used to be all consuming, debilitating. Now it was like an old memory. 

When he returned to their room, he found her kneeling beside the bed, hands clasped in prayer. He wasn’t sure what to do. He felt awkward having intruded. He closed the door as quietly as he could and stood just in front of it, looking at his feet and trying not to watch her. Then he heard the rustle of clothing and a squeak from the bed. He looked up to see her smiling at him, even as she wrapped her bedgown tighter around her. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say. 

“You didn’t.” Her smile grew even brighter. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her smile so freely. It made her eyes light up. They were a blue-grey – he wasn’t sure he’d ever notice that before. 

She excused herself to toilet and Patrick stood near the door, staring at the place she had just abandoned. 

He was feeling something very confusing to him. An ache, right in the pit of his chest, one different entirely from when his mind dwelt on Marion. Different from the guilt of disappointing Timothy. 

Patrick shook himself from his reverie and quickly changed into his pajamas. 

By the time she had returned, he’d already taken a pillow off the bed and tucked himself into the couch. He winked at her playfully when she shook her head at his chivalry, but she crawled into the bed without saying a word. 

/-/-

A beam of light peaked through the curtains and struck Patrick directly between his eyes. He scrunched his face and shifted deeper into his pillow. Then he noticed a cramp in his calf. His stretched his legs, but his feet quickly fell over the edge of the bed. He reached up and rubbed his face and gradually cracked his eyes opened. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite tell in the darkness. 

He looked up in the direction of his alarm clock. But there was no clock, no nightstand, in fact no wall. Instead, his eyes fell upon a young woman kneeling before her bed, the bit of light illuminating the room around her. He went still, trying to be as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t know he was awake. He closed his eyes. 

He wondered, vaguely, how often the sisters prayed every day. He wondered more what Sister Bernadette prayed for. What was she praying for now? Clarity over her thoughts, guidance for what to do next, forgiveness for their “holiday”? 

His neck was stiff and he suddenly realized his butt was hanging off the edge of the chaise lounge, but he didn’t want move. 

Finally, he heard rustling and assumed it was her standing up from prayer. Patrick opened his eyes and saw, very much to his surprise, her standing in just her nightgown. She had her back to him, but he could tell she was working the buttons on the front. It took his sleepy brain too long to realize that she was dressing for the day while she assumed he was still asleep; he saw the cotton sweep over her shoulders and watched it fall – down her shoulder blades, grazing the small of her back, slowing slightly around the curve of her bottom, before disappearing from view. He told himself to close his eyes, to look away, but he was too nervous about making any sound at all. 

So he watched her dress. Her milky skin was quickly covered, but the knowledge of her was now captured in his mind’s eye, down to a cluster of freckles on her right shoulder. 

While she buttoned her blouse, he closed his eyes and made a show of shifting onto his back. He heard her quicken her movements and, a few moments later, heard her sneak out the door and down the hallway. By the time she had returned, he was awake and mostly dressed. 

/-/-

Patrick went down to check them out while she remained and tidied up the room. And, because she didn’t want to be seen wearing yesterday’s outfit, Patrick waved her down while the landlady popped into the back room. 

Then Patrick loaded their cases into the car and they were off. 

For the first half of the drive, they enjoyed the sunny morning and chatted about the conference, trading notes about the lectures they each had attended. The conversation was light and flowed easily. It gave Patrick hope that his gift, this holiday, had gone well. 

But as they neared London, reality seeped into the car. His companion got quieter and soon he realized they needed some opportunity for her to change before they made it much farther. 

There was nothing around for miles – just open pastures and a long, straight road. He pulled over and she seemed to know what for without either having to say anything. 

They both got out of the car. Patrick retrieved her case from the boot and passed it to her. For a moment, they both held the handle, just a step away from each other. She looked up at him. She wore a sad sort of smile, but there was a certain calmness about her that unnerved Patrick a little. 

“Thank you for yesterday. I feel…” She stopped and searched for the right word. But, when she couldn’t find one, she looked back up and said, “There’s still – It gave me the space to think honestly.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond. Instead, took her case and ducked into the back seat. Patrick sat on the boot and watched for other cars, but none came. It felt like no time at all when he heard the car door shut. 

When he turned around, gone was the woman he had just spent a day with, who he had danced with and laughed with and watched pray. Gone was her lovely hair, the full dimension of her features. All replaced by Sister Bernadette. 

And yet – the thought snaked into view – he knew precisely what lay beneath the thick, formless wool, knowledge that made her more enchanting, more alluring, more a woman than she ever had been to him before.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Sister Bernadette found herself outside Sister Julienne’s office. 

She had left her room, turned into the hallway, and walked down the stairs, all with the intention of heading to the chapel for a brief moment of prayer and reflection, but instead her body had taken her right up to the heavy oak door. She had found herself there with her feet anchored to the spot, her toes facing the door, her bare knuckles grazing the wood’s grain. 

Exclaustration. 

The word had been floating around her mind all night. (The word had been hiding in the back of her mind for days, if she were honest with herself, but that had been such a problem recently.) 

In the early light of that morning, she had risen and dressed and looked over at her case from the weekend. She had yet to unpack it. She wasn’t ready to face disposing of the evidence of her holiday. As she stood in front of her dresser, as she looked into her small mirror adjusting her wimple, she could see the case reflected back at her. 

All during Lauds she sang and prayed and lifted her eyes to light of God shining through the stain glass, but the only word she really heard was a tiny whisper snaking up from her heart. Exclaustration, it said. Four syllables whispered into her soul. 

When breakfast ended, she knew it was time to ponder the reality of exclaustration. Time to consider what terms she might ask for. Time to reflect on the ramification of stepping away from her vows, stepping back into normal life, giving Shelagh a moment to breath and live. Sister Bernadette meant to return to the chapel, to think through this choice in the quiet of mid-morning. 

And yet she had arrived at Sister Julienne’s office. She had raised her hand to knock before she had any idea that she had arrived there at all. 

And then Sister Julienne’s soft but clear, “Come in.”

Sister Bernadette closed the door behind her without any notion of what she might say or how she might say it. 

She turned to face Sister Julienne – this wonderful, centering light that had guided her for so long. Sister Bernadette looked down at her and felt suddenly firm in her resolve. Suddenly, so sure of what she wanted. 

“I wondered, Sister, if I might speak with you about something that is becoming a concern for me.” 

“Of course.” Sister Julienne gestured for her to sit down and Sister Bernadette moved towards the chair with a sudden rush of spirit. She knew precisely what she was going to say, even if the words wouldn’t quite materialize. 

But just as her body met the hard chair, the phone rang. Sister Julienne put up a hand to pause their conversation and answered the telephone. 

It was clear to Sister Bernadette from the fall of Sister Julienne’s face and the way her eyes darted from side to side as she processed what she heard, that their conversation would have to wait. Something had happened, something dire, and Sister Bernadette could wait. 

“What can I do to help, Sister?” she found herself saying, rising as Sister Julienne rose. 

She was disappointed, for now that she had opened the conversation, she was ready for it to be over. She was ready to think about the next step. But she had found her resolve, a sense of clarity that hadn’t existed yet for her, and now she could wait until her elderly Sister was out of harm’s way. 

And then: “Change nothing. Go nowhere. Carry on exactly as you are. I really don’t think I can do without you.” 

Each individual word slapped Sister Bernadette’s ears. Four perfectly sharp sentences, each one piercing her resolve, leaking air out of her bubble of clarity. 

Sister Bernadette felt the little whispering voice stumble over the syllables of exclaustration. Like a stutter, as if embarrassed for bringing up the thought. 

And so was Sister Bernadette. Embarrassed, suddenly, for standing in Sister Julienne’s office. For the words that had nearly been spoken in there, a request to do exactly the opposite of what Sister Julienne needed from her. 

And then that voice found its footing again. And it spoke each syllable with hard, blunt, distinct diction. It spoke, over and over, like an angry chant. 

/-/-

Trixie had held up the bathroom rotation a little longer than usual and Sister Bernadette was late finishing her nightly routine. It was already the Great Silence as she exited the bathroom into the hall. 

The little voice had exhausted itself hours ago and she had been left with a certain sense of peace. Her mind had quieted. She was still resolved in her decision to speak with Sister Julienne about exclaustration, though she was uncertain when would be the best time. 

It was clinic tomorrow. She would speak with her in the evening, once the day’s labors were over. 

She felt lighter with that decision made. Then, suddenly, music filled the corridor. 

The tune reminded her of the dance hall and laughing with Dr Turner. Her thoughts lingered for a moment on the excitement of live music pulsing against her back, the feel of his palm resting against the side of her hip, the feel of his body pressed up against hers, her hand in his, his breath tickling her ear.

She paused in the middle of the hallway, listening to the music. It was light and exuberant, like a child skipping on a sunny day, and Sister Bernadette smiled.

The world seemed like it was coming together. Slowly, she was beginning to understand her path forward. 

And then the corridor went dark and silent. She heard the nurses hushing each other, stifling their giggles behind their closed door. 

How symbolic, being reminded so harshly that she wasn’t yet part of ordinary life, wasn’t yet allowed to want ordinary things, the angry voice said somewhere deep inside her chest. 

Tomorrow evening, she reminded herself. Tomorrow evening, after clinic and the day’s work was over, then she’d speak with Sister Julienne. Then she would take her first step down a long road. 

/-/-


	7. Chapter 7

Tuesday clinics were his favourite time of the week. He liked the certainty of them. Every Tuesday, without fail, he arrived at the Parish Hall to see the same faces – the same nuns, the same nurses. Always, they set the space up in the same exact way. Always, there was a fresh pot of tea waiting for him. Always, the nurses and nuns smiled and greeted him and then opened the doors. Their patients’ faces were usually different – and yet, they were the same. They were the faces of Poplar he saw every day in the streets, on his rounds, in his surgery, here even at the clinic. They were familiar and the same, even if they were new. 

He loved that consistency. When Marion was ill, he measured time by clinic. After she died, he lived week to week, clinic to clinic. 

As the clinic was drawing to an end, Dr Turner stood in front of the kitchen window. In one hand, he held a cooling cup of tea; in the other, a half-eaten biscuit. He looked out into the hall and enjoyed the calming wall of chaos. Mothers were chatting, children were playing, the midwives were steadily pushing through their long list of patients. 

He noticed, in the corner, that Sister Bernadette had finished clearing away the urine testing station. Then, she headed for the hall doors. He watched her pass by a group of mothers. The one, Mrs. Henderson, spoke to her. Sister Bernadette twisted from the waist to look at her, to smile and wave, but she didn’t slow. Dr Turner knew she clearly was on a mission, otherwise she would have been polite, she would have stopped and spoke and probably crouched down to offer some kind words to Mrs. Henderson’s little boy. 

While Sister Bernadette cleared the threshold of the Parish Hall, Dr Turner nibbled on the side of his biscuit. 

There was something else he loved about clinic: the certainty of seeing her. The certainty that Sister Bernadette would approach him as soon as he had arrived. A bit of pleasant chatter. Maybe an inquiry about Timothy. Usually, she was the one who poured him a cup of tea and offered him his first biscuit. On the weeks she worked the weighing station or check-in, he could usually find a moment of respite to sneak over and chat. When he did, she always smiled at him, like she was glad he was offering a short mental break. And if he was unfortunate enough to be scolded back to work by Sister Evangelina, Sister Bernadette always smiled at him conspiratorially and he’d wag his eyebrows at her and leave her to her work. And when clinic was over and the Parish Hall was tidied up, he made a point of finding her and telling her she’d done a good job. Most days, they said nothing beyond that. But once in a while, they’d get a minute or two together. And, even rarer than that, he’d make her eyes light up with laughter. 

It wasn’t until the hall door opened and Dr Turner spotted a wimple that he realized he’d been watching the door the entire time, waiting for Sister Bernadette’s return. 

She opened the door with her back. Once she turned around, he could see that she was carrying a heavy looking crate. There was the sound of glasses rattling against each other. She could hardly see over the crate to tell where her feet were going. 

He set down his cup and biscuit before he realized what he was doing. In five long strides, he had intercepted her. 

He placed his hands on the box, already taking the bulk of the weight from her. His hands were so close to hers, the sides of his hands grazed hers. They were soft and a little cold, just like he remembered them. 

That thought – his rather intimate knowledge of her hands – made him blush and his words tumbled out of his mouth. “Let me – I can, I’ll take this for you.” 

Right along her check bone, her pale skin turned pink. He wanted to smile at her, but that blush of hers was distracting him. Was she also reminded of their holiday, just three days ago standing in a dancehall, holding hands, pressing against each other, brazenly defying all of the rules?

She lifted her chin and looked up at him. A small, reserved smile settled on her face. Finally, he found the control to smile down at her. A big, bright, happy smile. Because he was happy, he realized. He was always happy when he was with her. And that did it – his smile made her smile grow until her eyes were lit up so brightly that she had to look away from him. She finally released the crate into his control and he walked off with it into the back kitchen. 

After he’d stashed the crate out of the way, he retrieved his tea cup and went to rinse it out. But then, quite suddenly, he remembered that Sister Julienne had asked him to speak with Sister Bernadette, so he could write up a report on how the charity money would best be spent. Instead, he smiled and refilled his cup. He’d hang around and wait for the Parish Hall to be tidied up, then he and Sister Bernadette could speak in private. 

/-/-

“I think it’s dreadful to waste your time like this,” was the first thing she said to him. 

She had helped clean up after the clinic and washed the dishes. The rest of the nuns and nurses had left and now she seemed focused on her earlier task. She lifted the crate Dr Turner had earlier stashed in there and placed it by the sink. 

He sighed and gently scolded: “Just tell me what you want, Sister.” Then he brought his cigarette to his lips and watched her work. 

“Very well.” She gave a brief sigh and he thought it was perfectly adorable that she worried about wasting his time when he would like nothing better than to be there with her. 

When she revealed that there wasn’t enough hot water, he was a little surprised. He blew out a cloud of smoke and asked, “Isn’t there?” 

He stubbed out his cigarette while she explained. He supposed he never noticed the hot water; there was probably so much the nuns and nurses took care of that he never noticed. 

“We struggle with these spirit lamps,” she said next and pulled one from the crate. He moved a little close to her, to see them better. “They’re so old-fashioned and so fragile.” 

They were small and Dr Turner nodded. “They must break so easily,” he said and took one from her to look it over. 

“Yes, and the wicks get damp and they won’t burn.” 

It wasn’t the words she said that caught his attention, but the way she said them. There was a sudden change in the pitch of her voice. And a breathiness, too, like she couldn’t quite say the words fast enough but didn’t have the air. 

He looked down at her and suddenly he realized how close they were to one another. He could so easily reach out and brush his fingertips over her cheek. He could lean down and press his lips against hers. He could take one small step and wrap his arms around her waist. He could – 

“Dad!” 

Timothy rushed past the window. The boy’s shout and his tiny pounding feet, startled them both. 

Dr Turner quickly returned the lamp and turned around to greet his son. 

“You’re wanted at the surgery. Hello, Sister Bernadette.” Dr Turner can’t help but smile at his son. The shyness of his voice, the boyish smile that softened his features, the way his body swayed to contain his energy. Timothy spoke to Sister Bernadette like a schoolboy with a crush and Patrick couldn’t blame him. 

He heard Sister Bernadette reply. He shifted, unconsciously, towards her voice but didn’t dare look at her. If he looked at her, he feared, he would be distracted by her all over again. 

Then Timothy – talking about the race, their practicing. 

Patrick couldn’t help but smirk at the boy’s excitement and confidence. He turned his head to Sister Bernadette and said, “Well, there’s a crushing verdict.”

But he was right. Looking at her was a mistake. Because she was smiling so sweetly, so lovingly at Timothy. And her mirth – the image of them struggling to stay in step, the honesty of Timothy’s assessment – was clearly conveyed in her eyes. 

He forced himself to turn away, to escort Timothy out of the room, out of the hall, away from Sister Bernadette. 

It was true that lately he’d been thinking a lot about whether he ought to start dating. He wanted a feminine hand at home, for Timothy – for both of them – and he wanted a friend again. He wanted someone to share the burden, to share ideas, to give him purpose again beyond the triage of general practice. 

He’d started to open up. He’d started to see the world as a happier, brighter place. And he’d found the perfect woman – a woman who was smart and witty, who could make him think, who could ease his heartache and lighten his load, who could make Timothy laugh and talk and feel comforted, who could make him feel passion and excitement just as well as she could calm his racing mind. 

Well, she was almost perfect. 

Before the Parish Hall doors closed, Dr Turner glanced back over his shoulder and could just barely see the navy of her habit through the kitchen window. 

/-/-

Sister Bernadette had hardly been able to catch her breath since Dr Turner left. She’d tried to busy herself with tidying the spirit lamps, then with cleaning the teapot, even though it hardly needed it. Then, she decided she would give the room a quick sweep. 

The kitchen didn’t even need a sweep. Strictly speaking, they weren’t required to sweep. There was someone who cleaned. But she needed a last task, a task in private. 

For a few marvelous hours, she felt like she had found her footing again. Her holiday had proven to her that she needed time out of the habit to explore herself, to remember herself. 

But the moment Dr Turner walked away, she knew in the pit of her stomach one very certain truth: she would not have taken her holiday with anyone else. 

She swept between the kitchen sink and wall with unnecessary attention. 

Not even Sister Julienne, she thought. Maybe, if Sister Julienne had offered the secret holiday without Sister Bernadette’s prompting, then maybe she would have agreed. 

She swept the entire length of the kitchen and then doubled back again. 

But she wouldn’t have relaxed. She wouldn’t have found Shelagh’s voice. She would simply have been Sister Bernadette dressed in the wrong clothes. 

She swept the entire parish hall with enough vigor to exhaust her thoughts. 

Her ride back to Nonnatus House was slow but her mind was silent. When she arrived home, she looked down the hall at Sister Julienne’s door. She had promised herself this evening she’d speak to her Sister, but the task seemed far too daunting tonight. 

Instead, Sister Bernadette went straight to the chapel. There she knelt in prayer, but her thoughts constantly strayed elsewhere. 

Why was Dr Turner the only one who could have so easily swayed her to take such a selfish holiday? What was special about him? 

Over the past year, their relationship had shifted. They had grown friendlier – but were they friends? 

They must be, for him to be so kind to her, for her to feel so confident saying those things to him. 

When she opened her eyes, a new thought occurred to her. What if, while she hadn’t been paying attention, she had become more than friends with Dr Turner? What if she had grown to like him, grown attracted to his disarming smile and penetrating gaze and masculine presence? What if, while she thought she was growing to love the idea of freedom, she was actually growing to love a dream? 

Sister Bernadette had gone to the chapel to pray, to collect her thoughts, to recharge her spirits. 

And yet, when she was called to dinner, she felt more drained than when she’d begun.

/-/-


	8. Chapter 8

It had been over two weeks now since the conference. Eighteen full days since her holiday. Sixteen days since she had tried to speak with Sister Julienne. Fifteen since her resolve had floundered. Lucky for her, she had Sister Monica Joan to shout about her conflicted soul to the entire staff of Nonnatus House. 

But that was unfair. Sister Monica Joan was just saying what she had seen and she was far from wrong. 

Sister Bernadette busied herself with the flowers on the altar, but her mind and heart weren’t really interested. 

She heard the sound of leather meeting the cold floor. It only took three steps for her to recognize the gait as Sister Julienne’s – there was a lightness to each step, as if she couldn’t bear to interrupt anyone, but also a certainty in each measured step. 

“Sister Bernadette, I owe you an apology,” Sister Julienne began when she arrived next to Sister Bernadette. 

It was a kind apology, Sister Bernadette thought as Sister Julienne continued. But it felt two weeks late. 

Two weeks ago, there had been certainty. There had been a clear path ahead. But since then, since their interrupted conversation, everything had gotten confused. She’d been forced to hide in prayer. 

Sister Bernadette tried to shake those thoughts off and turned to Sister Julienne. “I didn’t want anyone to notice. I didn’t want to impose myself, to make any sort of demand on the community.” 

“It isn’t an imposition to ask for help,” Sister Julienne said, as a means of gently scolding her. And Sister Bernadette, of course, knew that she was right, but also knew that she was afraid to cling to her Sisters, afraid to take solace in their love and comfort, if she was only to use their strength to help her leave them. 

Sister Bernadette felt Sister Julienne’s hand gently take her arm and lead her to the chairs behind them. “And you did ask for help. But I have come to offer what I can.” 

Sister Bernadette stared down at her hands. Two weeks ago, Sister Bernadette only had to look at her confidante’s kind face and the words had welled up in her chest, ready to spill out of her mouth with only the slightly bit of urging. 

But now the words escaped her. What had really changed? She was trying to figure it out. 

She was nervous about how Sister Julienne would respond. How would she cope without Sister Bernadette? How would Sister Bernadette cope without her trusted friend and mentor? 

She would want to stay on as a midwife – she didn’t want to change anything about her role in the community of Poplar – but how could she continue living at Nonnatus House, continue entering the homes of Poplar, continue on as if nothing had changed when so much would have changed? 

What would people say? What would she say back to them? 

No. Sister Bernadette pursed her lips. None of that was what had changed. Those were just excuses. 

She could feel Sister Julienne’s eyes carefully studying her. She felt more than saw Sister Julienne’s worry mounting the longer she remained silent. 

But would could she possibly say? 

I want my voice back. I want control over my life back. I want a family. I want to indulge these new feelings I don’t understand. 

It sounded so selfish. It sounded petulant. It sounded like she had learned nothing from her ten years in the service of God. 

“The truth is that I hardly know what ails me.” 

These weren’t entirely honest words. She knew quite a lot about what was disturbing her. She had a fairly firm sense of what she wanted. 

Sister Bernadette sought the comfort of Sister Julienne’s soft eyes. When she saw them, looking sad and nervous down at her, she nearly cried. 

“I almost wish I was physically ill. I want to be able to say ‘this is where it hurts’. Because if I could list my symptoms, you could offer me a cure.”

She did wish this. She wished that she could say she was simply overworked and overstressed. She wished she could say she couldn’t stand the smell of Poplar any more or that she had grown disenchanted with midwifery. She wished she could say it was a person harassing her. She wished it was just some external discomfort that would pass or be mended. 

“But you can’t.” The words slipped from her tongue, like an insult to Sister Julienne’s abilities, but that’s not what she meant. She shook her head a little. “Because I can’t.” Because I can’t talk to you openly, completely, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t be so cruel to Sister Julienne. 

But Sister Julienne didn’t understand her words completely. She squeezed her hands and smiled softly at her, like they had just achieved some small victory. “But we have made a start, Sister Bernadette. We’re having a conversation.” 

But were they? What ideas had been exchanged? What dreams and hopes and thoughts had been expressed? What more did Sister Julienne really know about her that she hadn’t already gathered through observation and intuition? 

The tears started in earnest now. 

“I think this is all that I can manage for today.” 

As Sister Julienne rubbed her back, all Sister Bernadette could focus on was just how surprisingly difficult it was to breathe. 

Tears fell from her eyes, but she didn’t sob. 

She studied the wrinkles on the back of Sister Julienne’s hands and let the rest of the world fade from her periphery. 

She wanted so much to speak to Sister Julienne. She felt she had so much to say and admit, so much guidance to seek. But as the tears dried up, something became quite clear to her. It wasn’t Sister Bernadette who wanted to speak. It was Shelagh. 

/-/-

Alone in her room, Sister Bernadette knelt beside her bed in prayer, but no words seemed to come to her. 

She tried instead to still her mind, to meditate on the day, but she couldn’t stay focused on any one train of thought. 

Eventually, her eyes fluttered open. And there was her case from the weekend, still abandoned in the corner of her room. 

The case wasn’t hers. It had been donated some time ago to the order and was available for any of the Sisters to use as necessary. The corners were a little worn. The interior needed some mending. But the clothes it housed needed no attention. Brand new. Purchased specially for her.

She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Now was a time for prayer, for steadying her thoughts. 

But she couldn’t resist. She cracked her eyes opened. 

She had loved the feel of them against her skin. Soft, delicate. She loved feeling them form to her body, like a gentle hug, a kind reminder that they were there for her and no one else. With them, she could be herself. 

Sister Bernadette snapped her eyes closed. She inhaled deeply. She tried to find the peace she had discovered just days ago. But with her eyes closed, all she could see was the image of herself in the bathroom mirror, hair curling around her face. And then, Dr Turner’s expression when he first saw her. That looked of stunned male appreciation. 

Desire, she should say. 

Sister Bernadette got up. She snatched the case and slapped it down on the bed. This was silly. It was time to place the Doctor’s clothes into the donation bin and get rid of them. It was time to put these thoughts out of her head and focus on the work at hand. 

She opened the case and grabbed the blouse off the top. The material was so soft against her cold hands. She really did love this outfit Dr Turner had bought for her. It was going to be so hard to give up. 

When she joined the order, she had to give up everything she ever owned. She gave up the 100 pounds she’d received upon settling her father’s estate; that had been so easy, for what would she need money for once she was cared for by the order. She gave up the few pieces of jewelry she’d inherited from her mother. That had been challenging, but she couldn’t even remember her mother wearing them. She gave up the clothes on her back, but they had been simple and utilitarian and already old. No, it was a picture that had caused her to break down in tears that evening. 

Sister Bernadette brushed her fingertips over the skirt still neatly placed in the case. She’d only ever had the one image of Michael. He’d taken it for her just before he left for training. The edges had gotten a little worn from her constantly touching it. There were permanent creases in the center of the right side where she’d hold it late at night waiting for sleep to take her. 

The Order had made her give up her very last piece of Michael. While she hid beneath her habit, all desire for him was stripped away. As time passed, even his face slipped from memory. They’d had such beautiful dreams once. 

Suddenly, she realized her jaw was damp. She wasn’t sure when she’d started crying, but now that she was, she couldn’t stop.

She missed him, but not in the same way she had when they took away his picture. She missed the sense of hope she once had. 

Just a few minutes later, she had emptied the case of its contents, but she had no intention of carrying them down to the charity bin. She stripped and changed quickly. It was late. Her Sisters and the nurses would all be in bed, except Cynthia who was on call. If she was quiet, if she was very careful, she could slip out the back door and not be seen. Darkness was beginning to settle across Poplar. She mounted her bike and took off to the main road.


	9. Chapter 9

“And the wicks get damp and they won’t burn.” 

Her words have been replaying through his mind for weeks now. Her breathlessness, her hesitation, the lilt of her beautiful accent. 

But tonight, finally, Patrick had found himself with a moment to catch his breath. It was the night before the summer fete and the cubs were spending the day camping out. So, Patrick went home, poured a whiskey and water, and set a record on the turntable. The record player had actually been Marion’s; he wasn’t actually sure when he last turned it on. 

He watched the disc spin, barely hearing the soft tones of Rosemary Clooney. 

“Ok, Patrick,” he mumbled to himself, swirling the lonely ice cubes in his glass. “What’s going on?” 

He took a small sip of whiskey. He let the liquid sit on his tongue, allowing the smokiness to envelop his mouth before swallowing. 

“You like Sister Bernadette. That’s fine. She’s a wonderful, intelligent woman. Amazingly compassionate. Great with Tim. She’s gorgeous.” 

He stopped talking and looked down at the melting ice. His pointer finger tapped the side of the glass. 

“Yeah, she’s gorgeous all right.” He brought the glass to his lips and took large swig. He wandered across the living room to the mantel. The next track started. 

He looked in the mirror – it was a little dusty; his reflection was a bit clouded – but he looked into his tired face nevertheless. “What are you doing, man? She’s not attainable. She’s not…”

He sighed and set his glass on the mantel. His knuckles came to rest against an old picture frame. Marion’s happy face grinned up at him. 

“What do you think, Marion? I am I pushing myself too hard? It’s too early, isn’t it?” 

He shook his head. That must have been it. As long as he was distracted by Sister Bernadette, he never had to worry about taking the next step. She was a safe choice because she wasn’t a choice. 

He lifted his glass back to his lips, but a sudden knock on the door surprised him. The glass hoovered in front of his mouth for a moment, until a second knock got his attention. It was late – well past ten o’clock – and he couldn’t image who was at the door. He hoped it was an emergency. He felt a little guilty, crossing his fingers that he wouldn’t be pulled away from his quiet night, but would never have guessed at what he saw when he pulled the door opened.   
  
She was here. 

Once, he might have thought he’d struggle to identify the nuns out of their habits. But now he knew that he could never not know her eyes, the shape of her face, the lightness in her expression when she looked up at him. 

He was so shocked by her – here, at his house, in the clothes he bought her – that he didn’t even say anything. He just stepped aside and gestured for her to come in. 

She walked around him and into the little hallway. He watched her peer into the living room and he was reminded suddenly of the time, several months ago, when Sister Bernadette had helped Timothy cook them dinner. When she had come into his home and so selflessly returned some order to the Turner household. Patrick pushed the door closed and she turned to look at him. 

“I love this song.”

He’d almost forgotten he had music playing. “Yes, Rosemary Clooney is one of my favourites.” 

But she wasn’t there to talk about music, he knew. And yet he wasn’t sure what to say. They stood for a moment, just looking at each other. Then finally Patrick raised his glass and clanked the ice around. “Drink?” 

He didn’t wait for her answer, just lead her further into the house and prepared her a drink and himself another. When he offered the glass, she kept her hands against her stomach, as if she meant to decline. But then she reached her hand out. Her fingertips grazed over the glass, hesitating one last time before taking it from him. 

He waited for her. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She had one hand wrapped around her stomach; one hand holding her glass just under her nose. Her eyes had fallen shut. Her head had tilted to the side and it seemed that she was drinking in the music. 

As the song neared the end of the track, Patrick thought it was odd that he didn’t feel awkward. This woman – an uncloaked nun – stood in the middle of his living room. And him, just leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching her. Her, eyes closed. Neither of them saying a word. But he would stand there all night waiting for her. 

When the track ended, her eyes fluttered open. She lowered the glass so her hand hung at her side. She hadn’t looked at him yet, not completely, but he could tell she was on the verge unravelling. 

“I’m thinking,” she said, so softly that Patrick leaned forward to listen, “about leaving the Order.” 

Her eyes darted quickly to his face. To gauge his reaction, he was sure. And he was sure that his shock registered across his face. He supposed he knew that that was possible, but he’d never heard of a nun leaving the Order. 

She seemed like she was waiting for him to speak and he wanted to say something, but he could see how fragile she looked. There was a glassiness to her eyes that made her look like she might cry at any moment, a tension through her jaw that was preventing her from breathing. Rather than speak, he set his glass on the table and crossed the room to the record player. 

He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled – a big, goofy, silly smile. “What do you fancy? I’ve got a few Rosemary Clooney. Or Dean Martin. Billie Holiday?” 

Her shoulder relaxed and her expression softened into a small smile. “I’d enjoy Billie Holiday.” 

As he traded out the discs, he hummed a little to himself and he hoped that he was lightening the mood and not making her feel dismissed. 

When the recorded spun into life, Patrick turned to see her sipping her whiskey and water and watching him. 

He studied her for a moment before he spoke. “Was this on your mind before our trip, or because of it?”

She sighed. “Both, I suppose.” 

She gestured towards his couch, as if asking permission, before lowering herself onto the edge. “I was beginning to have my doubts before. But I needed the space to explore my thoughts and since then…” She paused and looked up at him. 

“Do you know the term exclaustration?” 

He shook his head. 

“It’s a process that would allow me to temporarily give up certain rights in the Order, in exchange for exploring life outside the religious life. I could take up to three years to decide whether to leave or not.” 

He felt hope gather in the pit of his stomach. She wasn’t vaguely unhappy with her life in the religious order. She didn’t just need a moment of space to regroup. She had been seriously considering options. She was talking about starting a formal process of separation. 

Patrick suddenly realized that he was beginning to smile. He fought back and tried to relax his face into one of comfort. He joined her on the couch. 

“Have you spoken to Sister Julienne about beginning this process?” 

“I tried.” She twisted the glass in her hand, but hadn’t yet taken a drink “We were interrupted.” She sighed. “And then, when I tried to speak with her earlier today, I just couldn’t.” 

The tight ball of hope in his stomach stretched apart. He took a sip of whiskey; he tried to control his own completely unexpected feelings. “Why not? I’ve always found you and Sister Julienne to have a close friendship. I would have thought you’d find comfort in speaking with her.” 

She nodded in one large, plodding motion. “We always have been. But, I think… she’s always been a friend to Sister Bernadette. She’s always helped me in the past to understand my relationship to God, to our patients, to my Sisters, but…” 

He waited for her to find her words, but seemed to stop breathing for a moment, so lost in thought or uncertainty or anxiety. Suddenly, she brought the glass to her lips and allowed a small sip to pass between her lips. 

Finally, Patrick spoke: “But you’re worried that she’ll offer council to Sister Bernadette. She’ll help you to find your way back to the Order.” He noticed the way she stilled as she took in his words, noticed how her breathing shifted – deep and steady – and he knew that he had voiced what she couldn’t. “You’re worried,” he continued, “that she won’t understand you’re desire to leave?” 

She nodded and took another sip. Patrick imitated her, though his sip was rather more greedy than hers. 

When she began to speak, he watched her intently. “I feel as if I don’t belong at Nonnatus House any longer.” 

This one statement scared him. The idea of her no longer being a nun touched fantastical thoughts he wouldn’t entertain just now, but of course if she were no longer a nun, what role was there for her here in Poplar? Where would she go? 

“I look at my Sisters and I still feel love for them, but I find myself struggling to be quiet. Struggling to always obey and never question, never do as I wish. And the nurses – it’s like I long to be one of them, but I know that I don’t belong. Even if the habit were gone, they seem so much…” She struggled for a moment with the word. “So full of life. So untouched by disappointments.”

Patrick hummed in agreement. He wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, and yet he understood completely. The nurses had been born just before the war – their lives had been shaped by it, but not thrown completely off-track. 

They were quiet for a while. In that silence, Patrick remembered Michael – a boy she had once known, a boy and a life the war had taken from her. 

He looked up at her. She held her glass tight between both hands; the heat from them melted her ice and made the glass sweat. Patrick took another sip, let the whiskey sit on his tongue, swallowed, and let the smokiness burn his throat when he breathed out. 

“Why are you here?” 

He wasn’t sure that was the right question to help her, but it was his question. 

She looked up at him through her dainty silver glasses and shook her head. “I don’t know what to do.” 

He tried to place himself in her shoes, tried to understand her position. She was unhappy as a nun – that had become clear. (And this strangely pleased him. He didn’t enjoy that sensation.) The most logical course of action was to speak with Sister Julienne and request the exclaustration, but she was afraid of Sister Julienne’s judgement – her judgement? Or her disappointment? – and concerned that someone would talk her out of her plans. (Didn’t her concern that she might be convinced to keep her vows mean part of her wanted to stay? But did she want to say because she wanted to say, or because she was afraid of what awaited her once she left?) 

Patrick shifted forward. He nearly reached for her hand, but instead rested his hand on his knee. “You need to do what makes you happy.” She opened her mouth to respond, but instinctively he knew what she was about to say. He cut her off. 

“You are one of the most compassionate, selfless people I have ever met. You do so much for everyone and never ask for a thing in return. I can’t imagine how difficult this choice is for you. To leave the Order would be leaving everyone who has ever helped you, who loves you. It’s such an important community to you and you don’t want to hurt them. And that’s truly admirable.” 

He paused to breathe, to look at her, to hope that she believed him. 

“But sometimes we must be selfish. Sometimes we must do what is best for us – what makes us happy – in order to be at our best. You can’t serve the Order, you can’t help your patients, you can’t be a good friend, if you aren’t happy first.” 

He was sure he could have said more. Knowing him, he could have talked until the sun rose speaking of her merits, but he felt like he had said exactly what he needed to say. 

He didn’t know what she wanted that would make her happy; he really wasn’t sure what was going on in her mind. But if his own experience had taught him anything, that was it. That was the most important take away from his entire life. 

And so he was relieved when she smiled at him. It was a reserved smile. One more grateful than happy. 

There was something bubbling up in his chest, some sort of longing that he didn’t recognize. Patrick let it build as he waited for her to say something. But after a pause, after she did nothing but look out across the room, he realized what he wanted. He wanted absolutely nothing more in the world than for her – for this wonderful woman who descended like an angel into his tattered life – to be happy. 

“Tell me,” he said and she looked back at him, “what makes you happy.” 

She seemed surprised, but her answer came readily: “Music. Especially singing. I miss listening to the newest songs. I miss singing whatever I want.” She looked over at his record collection. He thought he detected a hint of jealousy and desire at the sight of so many records collecting dust. 

Patrick smiled. If music was what would make her happy, then he would play records throughout the night. He’d croon the latest singles during Tuesday clinic. He’d find excuses to drive her around Poplar and let her flip through jazz and pop and, hell, even that new American music if she liked it. 

He got up suddenly and walked over to his record player. His collection was limited to the year Marion got sick, when she stopped taking her monthly afternoon trips to the record shop. But he had one – something a buddy of his sent him for Christmas – that he knew she would love.   
“Yeah, this one,” he said to himself as he plucked it from the middle of the pile. 

Patrick glanced over his shoulder at her. He meant to speak, but he liked the way she was watching him – bemused and half-smiling – and so he just turned back and set the needle. 

The album was by an American jazz artist. The music was new and rebellious and Patrick thought it rather fit the theme of the night. He turned around and smiled at her. Then he downed the last of his whiskey, set the glass down near the record player, and reached out to take her hand. He was surprised that she didn’t hesitate. She took his hand and he helped pull her off the chair and twirled her into him. 

She laughed and crashed into him, almost spilling her whiskey all over his shirt. He took it from her hand and stretched his arm to reach the end table, not willing to move away from her. Then he took both of her hands and spun her around. The music was faster than he’d anticipated and he felt it a little by the time the song climaxed and fell into its conclusion. But, by the end, she was laughing and her smile filled her features. 

When the single ended, he was reluctant to let go of her, but he did and went to the record player to take the needle off. “Any other requests?” he asked as he slipped the record back into its sleeve. When there was no response, he twisted around to see her.

What he found was her standing beside the end table, elbows tucked into her sides, her whiskey in hand, staring down into the amber liquid. 

His movement must have startled her. She looked over at him and said, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” 

But he frowned and sighed and tucked the record back into the shelf. “I’m more interested in what you were thinking.” 

He walked over to stand next to her. He was looking down at her – curiously and tenderly – wishing he could do something to truly keep her happy. Almost instinctually, he took her hand. That was becoming a rather natural gesture, he thought, and nearly pulled away. But the act was done. He held her free hand between his. But this time, he noticed more of her. How her hands were cool, but not cold; how her skin was soft, but calloused at the base of her first two fingers (from her bike handles, perhaps?). 

When she looked up at him, he noticed that her cheeks were flushed and he assumed his were too after their dance. Then he saw how dilated her pupils were; how she seemed to be struggling to control her breathing. Probably still from the dancing, from the dark room. But a little part of him, if he hadn’t known better, might have said she seemed aroused. 

But certainly that was just him projecting his own difficulties. Certainly, he was a bit flushed and breathless from their dance, but honestly he knew there was more to his pounding heart than exertion. 

She really was gorgeous. Stunning. Captivating. He could come up with adjectives all night. But that’s not what he needed. He needed to move away from her, to calm down the tension that was building in his body, but he just simply didn’t have the will. He was hoping, for his sake, that she was more disciplined – that she would notice what was happening to him – and move away for him. 

But she didn’t. She kept looking up at him with her dark eyes. Suddenly, Patrick realized that their breathing had synchronized. 

He suddenly felt his body come to life, but he wasn’t sure whether it was going to pull away or kiss her until he felt his lips press against hers. His kiss was gentle and cautious, but he would hardly have called it chaste. 

Patrick was surprised by his impulsive action, but he was angry. And, when she offered no resistance, he was also relieved. Even still, he made himself pull away shortly afterwards. As their lips parted and he straightened a little, she leaned back into him and brushed her cheek against his jaw and rest her forehead against his cheek. There was a sound he couldn’t identify and then her left hand came to rest on his jaw. Her chilled fingers stroked the stubble on their way down his neck. 

For a while, Patrick wondered at that gentle movement. He had expected her to step away from him. Then he would have known that she enjoyed the kiss, but wanted nothing more from him. Certainly, he would have enjoyed if she had continued to kiss him, but he would have known that he had triggered a moment of sexual alertness in her, that he had started her down a path that neither of them would entirely have wanted to stop. But this… This was lovely. It was an intimacy Patrick had almost forgotten about. This was a much stronger indication of what she was feeling than even sex could have been. 

And it baffled him completely. 

He was still pondering this unexpected turn when she shifted. She had slid her hand from his neck to his jaw without him noticing and was now leading his lips to hers. She kissed him. At first, the kiss was very soft, almost nervous. But then, without any warning, her kisses became desperate. 

It wasn’t just her kissing him that surprised him. He was surprised by everything: the way she sucked a little on his bottom lip; the way her tongue darted out and skirted along his top lip; the way her hand slid along his jaw, just over his ear, and tangled itself into his hair.

His body wasn’t quite sure what to do or how to react. He was afraid to touch her. He was afraid to really kiss her back. But then – his whiskey addled front brain reminded him: she was the one kissing him, she was the one playing in his hair, she was the one who had made the choice. This was what she wanted. And if he had really wanted to protect her, if he was really concerned with her reputation and her virtue, he wouldn’t have kissed her in the first place. He wouldn’t be letting her kiss him now. In the morning, he’d blame the whiskey for what he did next. 

He settled his hands on her hips and was surprised a little by just how petit she really was. His fingertips brushed either side of her spin, nearly touching. 

He felt her breasts pressing against him and he wanted to move his hands higher, he wanted to touch her. But he resisted the impulse. Even as he felt himself growing erect, even as he felt his last remnants of control sliding away, he knew that things would end before they got too far and he kept his hands exactly where they were. 

When he needed a break, he moved his lips from hers. He kissed the corner of her mouth. He kissed her chin, along her jaw. His lips grazed her ear, making her moan into his. It’s an accident (instinct) when his hand travelled up her side until his thumb grazed the side of her breast. 

Then her hand that had been playing in his hair trailed down to his chest. He felt a little pressure and he knew in the back of his hazy brain that she was pulling away. 

A violent impulse flared in the pit of his stomach, one that made his one hand still on her hip squeeze gently, that made him press his entire body against hers until there was breath of air between them, that made him nuzzle his nose into her hair above her ear. But then he fought back against that desire – that animal instinct of possession.

His hands slowly fell to his side and he took a step away from her. They were still so close. He could feel the heat radiating from her body. He was nervous to look at her; he dreaded the possibility of seeing guilt or shame or disgust in her eyes. But then noticed that he could smell her arousal. That realization made him lift his eyes to her. 

Her lips were still a little parted, as if she expected him to kiss her again. But he could see the confusion on her face. And she wouldn’t look at him.

He took a step further away. 

He had made a huge mistake. 

“It’s late,” she said suddenly and he realized that he had no idea what time it was. Well after midnight, he supposed. 

She turned and walked towards the door. 

He was glued to the spot. He was convinced that she wanted nothing to do with him, not after what just happened. But then his more gallant side – the dreamer in him – knew that if he didn’t act now, he’d never get another chance. He rushed after her and slammed his hand against the door just as she was reaching for the knob. 

“I’m so sorry. You came here for friend and I – I took advantage –” 

He cut himself off when she suddenly turned to look at him, reached up for his shoulders, and placed a strong kiss on his lips. Then, just as quickly, she sank back down to the floor. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve just given me a lot to consider.” She placed a step of space between them. He nodded but didn’t speak. He didn’t trust himself to. 

He realized, after a moment, that she was just continuing to look at him, not reaching for the door. 

“I should leave.” She spoke like she was trying to convince herself of something. 

In a sudden burst of clarity, he opened the door for her. She hesitated just momentarily before slipping out into the night. He watched her retrieve her bike and briefly worried about her cycling all the way back to Nonnatus House in the dark. But the nurses and nuns travelled so often at night that he was sure she’d refuse any offer to escort her. 

Once her figure had disappeared onto the main road, he closed the door and returned to the living room. He found his empty glass and poured himself another whiskey and water and slumped down into his couch. 

“Well, Patrick,” he said with a sigh as he started through the glass at the amber liquid. “Now what are you going to do?”


	10. Chapter 10

Instinct, more than replenishment of spirit, woke Sister Bernadette the next morning. She laid on her stomach, her arms tucked under her pillow, her hair in an angry tangle around her face. She remained still and watched as each breath disturb her hair. 

It had been a very long time since she had woken up like this. Her hair hadn’t been free during her sleep since she’d joined the Order and the last time she had slept on her stomach… 

The last time was probably the night before she took her vows. When she laid on her stomach and her chin rested on the pillow and her hand clung to Michael’s picture. 

Thinking about him, about taking her vows eleven years ago, shocked the grogginess from her body. She sat up quickly, rubbed her eyes, and retrieved her glasses from the nightstand. 

On her dresser, she had a simple brush. She picked it up and began to brush out the knots. She thought it was rather stupid of her – rather rash – to have gone to sleep without her cap on last night. How dumb she had been. She began to brush more aggressively, as if flagellating herself with each tiny tug of pain. When she looked into the mirror to monitor her progress, she saw the pile of clothes reflected back. 

Behind her, on the far side of her bed, she had folded and discarded her clothes on the floor. Just left them out in the open for anyone to see. How stupid she really had been. (The truth was, she had been so tired when she arrived back at Nonnatus House – so emotionally and spiritually and physically tired – that she would rather have been caught than expend the energy hiding.) 

She finished brushing her hair out and hurriedly tied it back in a bun. Then she covered her hair with her cap, before retrieving the clothes off the floor. She stroked the soft blouse. She should wait until later, after the excitement of the summer fete, to slip the clothes into the donation closet. For now, though, she needed to hide them and so she opened her drawer and tucked them in the bottom under her nightdress. 

And now, with Dr Turner’s gift hidden and her cap in place, the past seemed buried. 

Slowly, she made her bed and dressed. The movements were habitual and mechanic. The whole morning ritual was like a meditation. Silence. Serenity. That was what she wanted from her religious life. 

Before first light peaked into her room, Sister Bernadette sat on the edge of her bed, dressed once again in her habit. In her lap, she held her bible opened. Though she was looking down at the page, the ink seemed to blur all together. The words weren’t visible to her. 

/-/-

The energy of the summer fete had enlivened her spirits. When a crowd began to form, waiting for the cub’s musical performance, she had let herself be swept in that direction. 

Without thinking, Sister Bernadette scanned the crowd for friendly faces. She spied Sister Monica Joan and some of the nurses, but her focus quickly settled on Dr Turner. He was much closer to the stage than she. He had his hands tucked in his pockets and a huge smile on his face. She made to push forward through the crowd to join him and cheer with him for Timothy, but then the music started and the rush of enthusiasm from the crowd made her pause. Suddenly, she thought it would be best if she stayed where she was. 

Her desire to say hello to Dr Turner, to be near friends during the play, battled with her impulse to remain where she was. But finally her unconscious thoughts revealed themselves. 

She looked over at Dr Turner, saw him laugh at Timothy’s arrival. If she moved closer to him, if she stood next to him, she would be able to smell the traces of lavender in his clothes soap, the clean scent of his aftershave, the muskiness of him. 

And, if she could smell him, then she would be reminded of the taste of him. She would be reminded of the feel of his chest under her hand, the sensation of his stubble grazing her palm. 

The sound of high-pitched, slightly off-key singing brought Sister Bernadette back to the present. 

The boys were so merry and wonderful, barely able to contain their giggles. She was grateful for the innocent interruption and kept her eyes on Timothy as he tried to imitate a girl’s voice. She remembered him saying that he had been unhappy about being casted as Maid Marian, but he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He had a huge smile and was hamming up his part opposite Jack. 

After only a few minutes into their musical, she couldn’t keep her eyes trained on the boys and they strayed back towards where the Doctor stood. She loved watching him watch Timothy. He always had such a genuine, wide smile for the boy. He was no good at hiding his emotions and it was always so plain and clear how much he loved the boy. It made her smile that kind of affection, the way she knew the Turner family would be all right in the end. 

But when Dr Turner’s expression fell, when he rushed away with Nurse Lee, she knew something tragic had happened. She worried for the patient and sent a quick prayer after them. But then her eyes returned to the stage and her heart fell at the sight of Timothy’s disappointment – at the way his shoulders slumped immediately; how his acting went flat; how, for the rest of the musical, he seemed bored. 

/-/-

There had been no need for him to go out to that call. There was nothing more he could do that Sister Julienne was not already seeing to. The Flying Squad arrived shortly after him. He was mad with himself for being mad at Nurse Lee and guilty that he was more upset with missing Timothy’s play than the condition of his patient, but these were the truths. 

He rubbed his face, but the twinge of his hangover with still lingering just behind his tired eyes. He had woken up that morning when the sun pierced through his bedroom window, wounding his sensitive eyes. There was a gentle pulsing between his ears that made it hard for him to think clearly. He laid in bed for a while, regretting a number of decisions he had made the night before. Not the least of which was continuing to drink well into the night. 

He had kissed Sister Bernadette. But, amazingly, she wasn’t upset with him. Then, he had touched her inappropriately. And, still, she wasn’t angry. She was insistent that he had done nothing wrong. He knew her well enough to think that, had she been made uncomfortable, she would have told him. 

A half hour later, Patrick was in the kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee to his nose and inhaling the scent deeply. He hadn’t drunk coffee until the war, and he hadn’t appreciated coffee until he married Marion, who could brew the perfect aromatic pot. No sugar or milk needed; no bitter bite or sludgy grounds to swallow as an aftertaste. Morning coffee smelled like her. 

“Dad! Are you ready!” 

Timothy’s voice pierced the entire house and Patrick winced a little as it hurt his ears. 

“Ready?” he called back. 

The little cub raced inside with his pack slung haphazardly over his shoulders. He tossed it down next to the sofa and opened his mouth in disbelief. “The fete! It’s starting in twenty minutes.”

Patrick glanced up at the clock in surprise. It was much later than he had realized. But he tried to stay calm – if for nothing else than his own aching brain. “Ok. I’ll go get dressed. Why don’t you wash up – and put your things away properly.” 

Timothy grumbled, but did as asked. 

Timothy’s energy was so effervescent that Patrick couldn’t help but be reinvigorated by him. By the time they reached the fete, Patrick was happy and smiling. He was stopped by patients and neighbours at every step and Timothy quickly snuck away from him to find his friends. Patrick was soon plied with drinks and sweets and sandwiches. He exchanged small talk and laughed at jokes, but the whole time he was scanning the crowds for any sign of Sister Bernadette. He just wanted to know that she was ok. 

By the time Timothy’s musical was set to start, he still hadn’t been able to find her, but he had hoped that she would come stand with him. But she never did and then Nurse Lee pulled him away. 

So here he was, angry and searching for Timothy to desperately apologize, but he couldn’t find the boy anywhere. Until, suddenly, he realized the time and knew he should be with Timothy for the three-legged race. He rushed to the course in time to see that he was already late. Another blow to Timothy’s trust. 

But then – he saw Timothy and Sister Bernadette leading the pack. He raced to keep up with them, to cheer them on. He thought perhaps he saw Timothy become more determined once he heard his father’s voice. They sprinted to the end and collapsed in a laughing heap at the end. 

He was glad to see that Sister Bernadette seemed happy and calm when he approached her. He was glad that she smiled at him and joked with him. He was glad that she wasn’t suddenly estranged from him, despite the habit that separated them. 

He knew that there was no reason for him to follow her into the Parish Hall. Certainly, a little graze on the pavement didn’t merit a doctor, but he had hoped to speak with her since he’d arrived and the idea of a moment alone was too much to pass up. 

After taking a moment to check in on Timothy, he entered the hall. He heard the faucet and made his way into the kitchen to see her running her hand under cold water. 

“Would you like me to have a look at that?”

He startled her, but she turned to him and agreed. 

He knew it was a bit silly for him to ask to look at her hand. He could see from across the kitchen that it was just a scrap. It needed nothing more than a good cleaning and some cold water to numb the pain, all of which Sister Bernadette could do on her own. 

But he had wanted to help. He wanted a reason for her to need him. And he was a little surprised at her easy agreement. 

She offered her hand to him and he took it, cupping it in his left hand like a holy object – because she was holy in a way to him. Precious and perfect. 

Her hand, he noticed without meaning to, was everything it was last night: cool and soft and pale. Now, though, he had the time to study it, to notice how slender her fingers were, how tiny her hand was in his. 

The scrap was a bit worse that he’d thought. More of a cut than a graze. He brought his right hand to inspect it, but quickly realized that it wouldn’t need stitches. Surprisingly, it didn’t even seem to be bleeding. There wasn’t anything he could do to help beyond telling her what she already knew. 

How many times had he held her hand now, he wondered. It felt so natural to hold it, to stroke his thumb along the base of her hand; so natural to want to kiss her better.

The thought crossed his mind – or rather, the recognition of an impulse to lean forward and kiss her hand. It was silly, but he wanted to do something sweet, something helpful, something to make her smile. 

His lips pressed against the slightly calloused skin just at the base of her fingers. He felt the landscape of her hands – soft and delicate; firm and toughened – before her hand was snatched away from him. 

His mind, still a little clouded from last night’s drink and late hours, took a moment to register what he had done and how she had reacted. 

When he straightened, when he looked at her, a few things were abundantly clear: she had turned away from him; she was in her habit; they were in a public place; he had done something horribly wrong.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head, disappointed with himself. “That was unforgiveable.” 

“Who is it who decides what is forgivable and unforgiveable.” 

Her voice broke a little, in a way both adorable and tragic. 

He didn’t really know what to say. He was sure, at least, that he would never forgive his own stupidity. 

“I think you know that better than I do.” 

She turned, as if she wanted to look at him, but she didn’t. She stilled halfway between keeping her back to him and turning to find comfort in him. 

“At this moment, I only know that I’m not turning my back on you because of you, I’m doing it because of him.” 

Was he supposed to take comfort from that? From her constant willingness to forgive him for his indiscretions? For his lack of discipline around her? 

“And if I didn’t accept that, I wouldn’t deserve to live.” 

He knew that any clarity he had helped her find last night, he had robbed her of now. 

Leaving her like this was the last thing he wanted to do, but the only thing that seemed right. He turned and fled back into the bright summer afternoon and the buzz of happy conversation and felt terribly out of place. 

/-/-

Sister Bernadette was the first to return to Nonnatus House. Sister Julienne and Nurse Lee were still with their patient; the others were still delighting in the mid-afternoon treats and games. Sister Bernadette, instead, went straight to her room. 

She was not mad at Dr Turner. That was the only thing she was absolutely certain of. His kiss was gentle and beautiful and meant out of love, not cruelty. And she had delighted in it, for just a moment, before the full weight of reality overcame her. 

Things had gone too far between them. If she were going to make a decision about leaving the Order, it had to be her decision. It had to be the right decision. To think she left for the Doctor, to think she left simply to delight in a man’s attentions, would be wrong. 

Back in her room, she paces the length of it, then the width. 

For no particular reason, she remembered Doctor Turner’s gift tucked away in her dresser and her promise to dispose of them during the chaos of the afternoon. 

She took them out carefully – the blouse, the skirt, the shoes he got her – and carried them as furtively as she could downstairs. The key to the donation closet was in Sister Julienne’s office, but she hesitated outside the door. It suddenly seemed wrong to her to donate the clothes, for they weren’t hers to donate. Dr Turned bought them and he should decide what he wished to do with them. She went into the kitchen and found some brown paper to wrap the clothes and a discarded box to store the shoes. 

Everyone would be at the fete, including the Doctor with his son. The surgery would be closed today, she knew, but she had access to the keys to get in. She took them and stored the packet on the back of her bike. 

As she rode away from the fete and onto the main road, she made a decision. If she were going to choose to leave the Order, it had to be for her and not for Dr Turner. She would give herself a month of reflection. A month where she would try her best to avoid the Doctor; she would see him for professional reasons only. No more casual chats during clinic. No more shared cigarettes in private. Certainly, no more secret “holidays”. 

The list felt like hardest fast she had ever been asked to endure. But she knew that it must be done. A regiment of fast and prayer and, at the end, she would decide. 

When she arrived at the surgery, she saw that she was right. The surgery was dark and quiet. She slipped in without being noticed, set the brown package on his desk, and slipped out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume most of episode S02x06 happens as written. This picks up after her tests at the hospital, before Sister Bernadette arrives at the sanitorium.

After x-rays and blood tests and a full examination, after shivering in the cold, sterile rooms, Sister Bernadette knew for certain: she had TB. 

She was in the early stages. The lesions were small and her symptoms were very mild. The doctors spoke gravely, but with great pride and hope for the newest treatments available to her. 

It was the one doctor – he was older, with thinning grey hair and round spectacles – who had spoken to her after the day of tests. His voice was deep, like it kept getting caught in his throat, and his tone never modulated – never got excited, never got upset, never expressed sympathy. He explained to her the severity of her disease, the general course the disease progressed. When she interrupted him to say she was a nurse and had seen enough TB cases to know what lay in store for her, he said, “With all due respect, we don’t think about illness the same way when it’s someone else. I want to ensure you understand what you – and not your previous patients – are in for.” 

She supposed he had a good point and she supposed he wasn’t dismissing her years of experience just because he was a doctor and she was no one to him. But Sister Bernadette knew exactly what lie ahead of her. She knew exactly what her death would look like, if the triple treatment proved ineffective. 

With her father, it had started as a bit of breathlessness. With her brother gone in the war, he was working twice as hard around the farm and then, one day, he was struggling to walk his full circuit – a walk he had made every day since he was a boy. Then the cough started two weeks before V-E day and he never shook it. By the end, it was so awful to listen to him – to hear the wet, aching cough; to see the pain reflected on his face with every movement he made. 

By the end, she had become so restless. She felt – if she kept moving, then time would move faster. And if time moved faster, her father’s suffering would come to an ended sooner. It was so horrible to see him in the full consumption of it that she prayed for his death. 

“I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling,” she heard Dr Turner say and suddenly she realized that he had been talking for their entire drive back to Poplar. She wasn’t sure what he had been saying, but she was sure it was for his own peace of mind, more than hers. 

She didn’t say anything in response. Just offered him a tight, forced smile and returned her eyes to the London landscape. 

She knew she should stay positive and optimistic. The world was a different place now than it was in 1946. Now, all her tests and her medicine and her stay at the sanitorium would be free of charge. And the new medicines had had tremendous success. In this brave new world, she was unlikely to die. 

But she still could. People still died in Poplar of TB all the time. They died terrible, painful deaths. 

The thought seized her, like a hand passing straight into one’s chest and yanking on one’s diaphragm: ‘I don’t want to die without ever having lived. I don’t want to die before I accomplish all my dreams for life.’ 

Sister Bernadette looked over at Dr Turner. He was talking again, but her ears seemed like they weren’t working anymore and she couldn’t make out a single word in his breathless stretch. So, she spoke over him, “I don’t want to go back to Nonnatus House. Not just yet.” 

He went silent and sober and looked over at her. As they entered Poplar, he turned off the main road early and took them through the familiar streets to his surgery. 

/-/-

Patrick took her into his office and closed the door behind them. She stood just inside his office, like she was waiting for an invitation to sit down, but Patrick’s hands were so fidgety he didn’t think he could bare to sit just yet. He looked around, desperate for something to do with them. He had some whiskey and glasses in his desk, but then he thought, in her condition, in her habit, it was probably best not to offer. Instead, while his mind searched for an answer, his hands reached into his jacket packet and retrieved his cigarette case and lighter. 

It wasn’t until Patrick had placed a fag between his lips that he realized what he was doing. He took a second from his case, placed it between his lips besides the first, and lit them both. 

Sister Bernadette need only be shaken from her thoughts before she accepted the cigarette without comment. They stood for a moment, inhaling greedily, exhaling reluctantly. 

At some point, Sister Bernadette set herself down in the chair usually reserved for the doctor’s patients. She looked down at the half-smoked cigarette and let out a humorless laugh. “After the fete, I promised myself I would take a month in prayer and reflection. And that meant taking time…” 

She paused and looked up at him. The way her shoulders slumped and a little blush formed on her cheeks made her seem guilty of something. 

“I said I wouldn’t see you for the month. No more secret…” She trailed off and looked at the fag. “Indulgences.” 

He had noticed that she was avoiding him. Tuesday clinics had lost all their mirth. The weeks had begun to bleed together without memories of her to break up the days. 

“I wasn’t mad at you,” she said quickly. He came around to sit on the edge of his desk. He wanted to see her face; he wanted her to look up at him and she did. “I just needed some space to think. I knew that, if I choose to leave the Order, I needed to do it entirely for me.” 

“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly and covered his nervousness by taking a quick puff. “I won’t lie about that. But I entirely respect why you were avoiding me.” 

She hadn’t taken another drag since she sat down and, even now, held it in her hand, careful not to let the ashes fall on her clothes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she admitted. 

He wanted to laugh at that. Him, not notice that he had gone weeks hardly speaking to her? Him, not notice that no tea had been prepared by the time he arrived at clinic, that no Sister Bernadette handed him a cup and blessed him with her lovely greeting? Him, not notice that his days felt steadily less joyful, like happiness had been blanched from the world? He noticed the day after the fete that her presence had become sparse. 

All he said: “I noticed.” 

She nodded, pursed her lips, and, after a pause, took a long, hard drag on her dying cigarette. “My father died of TB. Before National Health.” 

He hadn’t known that – there was so much he didn’t know about her. 

“I’m afraid.” Her voice was just a whisper. She was looking at him, but, as soon as she spoke, she looked away. 

He stubbed out his cigarette and knelt down in front of her. “The triple treatment has had amazing results. So much has changed since the war. And we found your diagnosis so early – you needn’t be afraid.” 

She smiled, a sad but genuine smile. Then she reached up and ran her hand over cheek. He closed his briefly, enjoying the sensation of her cool fingers against his rough skin. 

“I’m afraid of leaving this world with regrets. I’m afraid of missing out on a lifetime of dreams.” 

Past the fear, he heard a new resolve in her voice. He opened his eyes and saw the same mix of emotions reflected her grey orbs. 

“If the treatment works,” she began slowly and her hand slipped away from his cheek, “I don’t think I’ll be coming back to Poplar as Sister Bernadette.” 

Too many emotions gripped him at once. Fear knotted his stomach, while hope plucked at his diaphragm. He wasn’t sure which had formed a fist around his lungs – perhaps each had taken one – but he knew he struggled to find the air to speak. “But you will come back?” 

She looked away from him, perhaps down at the cigarette that had burnt out between her knuckles, but Patrick kept his gaze steadily on her. 

Finally, she nodded and looked at him and said, “If someone is here waiting for me.” 

They said nothing else after that, but sat in a comfortable silence until darkness bleed into the summer sky. Patrick dropped her off at Nonnatus House, with a promise to pick her up the next morning. Their drive to the sanitorium was silent; the tension and fear and things unsaid made the drive claustrophobic. He thought he should say something inspiring, something comforting, something meaningful, but there was too much pressure to say something perfect. In the end, he just reminded her how good the treatment was, an unspoken encouragement that she would, in fact, recover. 

Every Tuesday, he carved out an hour lunch break for himself. Instead of eating, he sat at his desk and penned a letter to her. He imagined her face – beaming up at him as he entered clinic; or relieved when he arrived at a patient’s bedside to give aid; or biting back a laugh at some goofy expression he had sent her way in the presence of the other nuns; or eyes alight, delighting at whatever new thing Timothy was up to. He imagined all the brilliant moments of light she had brought to his life and he wrote pages every Tuesday. 

He sent a letter every week. Sometimes twice a week. Once, three times. He sent letters even when she sent no reply, because he would be waiting for her. He would wait for years, if that’s what it took. 

//----\\\

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: And that’s the end! This slight change here probably means changes what Sister Bernadette says to Sister Julienne in the sanitorium a little, but overall S02x07 and S02x08 should fit right into the end here. 
> 
> If you’re not ready for the story to end! Check out my story “An Imagined Affair”. It can be a standalone, but it inspired a lot of scenes for this story, so it certainly fits into the series. 
> 
> I will also be posting a new story “A Holiday From Being a Nun: Alternate Ending”. I struggled while writing Chapter 9 to decide if it should be chaste or mature. Ultimately, chaste seemed more in character for Sister Bernadette and for the story as a whole, but I still had the mature content in mind and partly written. So, I think I’ll finish that out and give you a little alternative to Chapter 9.


End file.
